


Bedroom Hymns

by colfield



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, like very heavy on the religious themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-08
Updated: 2016-03-08
Packaged: 2018-05-25 11:44:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6193846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colfield/pseuds/colfield
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shadowhunters, and those who love them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bedroom Hymns

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly? I can't explain this. I got fixated on the religious themes in Shadowhunters and how they don't really explore them as much as I want them to, and this mess came about.
> 
> Also I listen to way too much Florence + the Machine.
> 
> This is probably so weird and specific to my tastes. It's very heavy on religious themes, but in a very amoral kind of way? If that makes sense?
> 
> Title and section names taken from Bedroom Hymns by Florence + the Machine. Once again, everything in this fic is taken from the TV verse and if there are inconsistencies with the wider book verse I apologize. I don't own any of the characters. Any mistakes you find are my own.

_"To fall in love is to create a religion that has a fallible god."_

—Jorge Luis Borges,  _Other Inquisitions_  
  


  
_the undone and the divine_  
   
   
Clary’s mother never raised her to be religious.  
   
God was never more than a concept to her – far removed from her own reality, like a ghost story she heard as a child that never left her.  
   
She fills her life with art, a religion of its own making. She surrounds herself with beauty, with the riddles of humanity and the questions they’ve been striving to answer for eternities. Almost a god in her own right, creation at her fingertips, scrawled across the many pages that scatter her room, a mini universe made by and for her.  
   
She learns the stories of the old texts through art, holding them close to her chest like a secret:

  
   
\- _Eve_ , depicted naked and pale in the Garden, who carries the mark of the Original Sin on her because she refused to let herself be limited, because she looked around paradise and found it lacking so she dared to reach for something greater.  
   
\- _Delilah_ , with Samson’s head in her lap surrounded by her countrymen, who had the strength of the greatest warrior in her hands and decided to take it all away from him.  
   
\- _Lilith_ , her hair a striking image of Clary’s own red curls with the snake curled around her body, who was created equal to Adam and refused to be anything lesser, who left the Garden in search of her own paradise, who is the only one to know and speak God’s true name.

  
   
These are stories of warriors, Clary learns, survivors. Morality depends on which side you’re standing on.  
   
She’s 18, and thrust into a world of dark and shadows, of a war that’s been raging for centuries with no winners, only losses. _Trust us_ they tell her, handing her a weapon she never wanted, asking her to fight a battle she doesn’t believe in.  
   
But she does trust them. Maybe therein lies her ruin.  
   
Because she knows what they do to women like her, women who want too much, who take without giving everything up in return.  
   
The way that Jace looks at her, he’d give up everything if she asked him. That power is a heady rush that sits under her skin. She’s falling into whatever this is just as deeply. Mutually assured destruction.  
   
He kisses her like he’s looking for forgiveness. What’s worse is she lets him. She takes all of his pain, all of his desperation, all of his confusion and uncertainty and she gives him something to believe in.  
   
Because when Jace touches her, she knows what’s it like to be a god.  
   
   
   
   
_such selfish prayers_  
   
   
Magnus knows there’s no place for him in heaven. When he inevitably dies – because he will die, one day, immortality is nothing but an extension of the inescapable – he will sink below the surface and join whatever purgatory awaits there.  
   
So he makes a promise to himself very early on. He’s got to make the very best of whatever time he has, enjoying all the decadences the world has to offer, engaging in all manner of sin and debauchery.  
   
After all, what good is living a moral life if it does nothing to change your fate?  
   
He gets the message loud and clear from those who don’t approve. He’s an abomination, a child of depravity, unnatural, unwelcome. Of course, they have no problem using him when they need him – he’s no longer wicked in these times, merely a useful burden.  
   
It must be terribly easy to be hypocritical when your God’s beloved and favored, chosen for his own personal battle for the good of humanity, as the legend goes. The war rages on, but God remains quiet in his castle, letting his warriors do his bidding.  
   
Magnus isn’t bitter or angry anymore. He let that go a long time ago. It’s no use holding on to all of that. The big guy doesn’t answer the calls of his own chosen ones, let alone have the time to listen to the complaints from the spawn of a demon.  
   
No, Magnus knows his lot in life. He’s accepted it and he’s making the most of his situation.  
   
That is, until Alec Lightwood comes and ruins everything for him.  
   
He was only meant to be a bit of fun, something to pass the time, a checkmark on his list of conquests. It wasn’t meant to be this - this overwhelming, encompassing _thing_ between them.  
   
The first time Magnus gets on his knees for Alec, it’s a form of prayer. He could spend his eternity here, nestled between Alec’s thighs, his hands gentle in Magnus’ hair, guiding but never forceful, the muttered praises falling freely from his lips.  
   
Alec comes with Magnus’ name on his tongue. He kisses him after, full of such passion and reverence that Magnus’ toes curl.  
   
Magnus wants to curse any god that would bring Alec into his life, only to separate them so cruelly. He cannot follow where Alec goes. It stirs that demon in him awake, threatens to fill him with hatred at the wrongness of it all. He never asked to be made this way.  
   
Alec stops him from going down that path. He looks at Magnus with such devotion, like he would cast aside God and all of his angels for him. He discovers the expanse of Magnus’ body with his mouth, whispering blessings with every kiss.  
   
Magnus closes his eyes as he shakes apart underneath him, and challenges God to try and take Alec from him.  
   
   
   
   
_I’m not here looking for absolution_  
   
   
Lydia has done the whole forsaken love story before. She has no interest in doing that again.  
   
She knows exactly what she wants from this. It helps that Isabelle barely conceals her contempt for her. It makes this much easier. Cleaner. No feelings involved.  
   
It’s not something encouraged by the Clave. Quite the opposite, really. She’s never cared to follow those out dated guidelines though, not when real power was at stake.  
   
She’s aware that makes her a hypocrite of the highest order, and that will probably come back to hurt her in the future. For now, though, she has Isabelle spread out on the sheets, her body open and willing like a sacrifice.  
   
It’s not like Isabelle is innocent. Lydia knows what she’s done with those Seelies. At least Lydia has never rolled around with a Downworlder.  
   
Isabelle grips her by the hair, mean, and rolls them over so Lydia is underneath. She bites at the tender skin under Lydia’s jaw, a red imprint of lipstick around the bite. Isabelle is naked from her top down, but Lydia is still clothed, only her jacket discarded by the door.  
   
Isabelle takes her time pulling off her clothes, but Lydia doesn’t squirm, lays still as she can with Isabelle maneuvering her how she wants.  
   
It’s a release for them. Both in the physical sense, but more in demonstrative sense. Their line of work can be stressful. Here, Lydia can revel in Isabelle’s nails clawing at her back, can bite her way across Isabelle’s thighs and swallow her gasp with her mouth. It’s violent, this kind of release, and there’s beauty in that violence.  
   
They both understand the parts they must play. Different shades of the same lipstick. It’s private, this thing between them. Isabelle doesn’t have to share this part of her with her lapdogs; Lydia doesn’t have to keep up appearances of calm authority.  
   
They’re not nice – Isabelle is quick with an insult, Lydia perfected her sneer a long time ago. She gets it exactly how she wants it, and lets her know if she isn’t satisfied.  
   
In some twisted way, letting Isabelle see those ugly parts of her does make Lydia like her a bit.  
  
It doesn’t change anything. They both have duties to fulfill, roles they must perform. This is not some love story with a happy ending – being who they are means they’ll never get a happy ending. It’s a temporary fling, a fleeting moment between two lonely, angry people. Tomorrow they go back to their lives, pretending not to notice the other’s presence, and trying not to fall into this again.

**Author's Note:**

> come yell at me about this ridiculous show at my [tumblr](http://colfield.tumblr.com/)


End file.
